


Learning to Coexist

by kayurafii



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adoribull Holiday Exchange, Bull gets a bit of a bloody wound, Canon Typical Violence, Fluff, M/M, Shmoop, cuddling for warmth, trapped together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-12 00:17:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5647024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayurafii/pseuds/kayurafii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian and Bull get caught with a cave in between them and the rest of the party.  With instructions to “stay put” and nothing but time to kill while being smothered with tension, the two find themselves actually talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning to Coexist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [floof](https://archiveofourown.org/users/floof/gifts).



> This is my holiday gift for (tumblr name) scarletfoxtales. It's posted on the Adoribull Holiday Exchange tumblr. And this is nothing but fluff and shmoop with a dash of pinning. Hope you enjoy it :3  
> P.S. I really wanted to title this Varric's Lament  
> And, as always, many thanks to dedkake for betaing for me.

They’ve been dancing around each other since the Inquisition found Skyhold.  Aggressive flirting and steamy bluster back and forth with no clear line between fun making and genuine offering.  To those on the outside, the feelings are just as mixed; concern at the sentiment and excitement at the show.

Dorian is frustrated (huffy) at how easily the Iron Bull could rile him up; at how much he wants the flirting to be real.  But he doesn’t trust it.  Ignoring that the man’s Qunari, he’s Ben Hassrath, a spy and a liar.  Dorian learned early in his life that anything so blatant is, not only too good to be true but also, hiding something else.  Something hurtful.  So even when the Iron Bull makes him he rebuts any approach and hides his smile behind a sneer.

The Iron Bull knows just about everything he needs to know about Dorian (scion-of-house-Pavus-most-recently-of-Minrathus), little Altus from Tevinter; emotionally repressed, personality made of misdirection and self deprecation and arrogance; a man who wears a mask more easily than his own face.  Bull also knows that he’s too pretty by half, and far too aware of it.  (He’s certainly a case for believing Tevinter breeding practices, regardless, the Bull thinks in his more less-than-sober considerations of the man).  And Bull’s okay with that, mostly because he can tell that the ‘Vint is being straightforward with  _ why _ he’s joined the Inquisition.  

But the longer Bull watches him, which is as often as he can get away with and a few more blatant times besides, the better he can read the younger man.  The more he wonders if half of that bluster isn’t just the man not knowing how to react with normal people.  He sees the way the mage’s eyes linger on the Commander’s shoulders but glide over the Inquisitor’s ample assets, the way he flirts as easy as anything but only shows high color and quickened breath when the men smile encouragement.  

Bull knows what he needs to get under the ‘Vint’s skin and to keep him off-balance.  So he does.  At first he keeps careful attention on how the other reacts, on how he puffs up and denies.  But later, when the lines between them aren’t so clear, after the Qun has abandoned him, he just wants to see how far Dorian will let him go.

He gets his answer on the Storm Coast with Dorian pinned by his gaze to the path, eyes wide and breath quick.  His rebuttal sharp and far too quick.  Confusion written in every taut nerve.

And, even months later, the dance goes on.  Though the Bull has a goal now.  He wants to see who Dorian is behind all of the bluster and pomp and sharp words fueled by arrogance and shame.  He know the mage is smart and a least a little kind-hearted.  Bull is also aware that the ‘Vint is tired of hiding.  He knows that look he’s seen in the mage’s eyes--he’s seen it too many times in the line of fire.  People who want  what they want and are getting ready to take a plunge.

As far as Dorian is concerned, however, the attention of the Iron Bull is frightening.  And that may be too straightforward a word for it.  Even in Ferelden men know how to flirt discreetly.  But not the Iron Bull, oh no.  The big brute has to broadcast to whomever is about that he has  _ intentions _ .  Regardless of what those might be, or if they’re welcome, everyone within easy hearing  _ knows _ .

Dorian’s tired of hiding, but he’s not quite ready to air  _ all _ of his personal business yet.  Years and years of keeping everything on the downlow, flirting across the room with subtle looks and heated gazes still appeals to him.  More than appeals, sets him at ease.  Keeps him in control.

But the Bull will have none of that, it seems.  Happy to corner him and speak his lewd words where anyone can hear them, to pin him in place with a gaze far too heavy for the ‘Vint to handle without blushing deep and hot.  Dorian does a good job playing the startled hare for a while but slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to allow the Bull into his life.  He joins the Chargers for drinks in the evenings, and he lets Bull lead him away from dark corners with a gentle touch and easy smile.

***

The Emprise du Lion is as advertised, a frozen wasteland that Orlais appears to ignore now that it can’t get what it wants.  But the Inquisition is here, fighting the good fight.  In the middle of a blizzard.  At least, and Dorian counts this as a small blessing, the fighting has wandered into a series of caves and caverns.  There is no blessing in the fact that they keep running into Behemoths.  One in particular has a lovely time smashing the walls.

Dorian is throwing a barrier over Cadash when the air is knocked out of him as Bull rams into his midsection, taking them both to the ground, hard.  Unable to lash out verbally, with his breath still fighting in his chest, he flails out with his hands.  His staff is somewhere on the ground, in the dark, but his hands hit something solid enough to be the Tal Vashoth.  Solid, warm, and damp with sweat.

In his anger, and distraction by the great  _ bulk _ of man on top of him  _ still _ , he doesn’t seem to notice that the air is full of dust and darkness and silence.  He doesn’t notice, yet, that they are cut off from Cadash and Solas until Bull’s great hands lift him off the ground and turn him to face the rockslide between them and the Inquisitor.

“Thank you,” Dorian doesn’t look at Bull, but puzzles over the wall of fallen stones as he begrudgingly speaks.  “For saving me, I suppose.”

The Iron Bull just laughs, toeing at the smaller rocks at the base of the new wall.

Dorian calls a spell wisp to life, green and bobbing, to illuminate their way.  “Do you suppose we should continue on?  That the tunnels eventually meet up?” he asks, still not looking at Bull.

“Might need a few minutes, ‘Vint, need to figure out where all this blood is coming from,” Bull answers, still out of breath.

Turning back and directing the wisp to travel over the warrior, Dorian runs over what little healing he knows.  Bull is seated with his back leaning against the rock slide, he has blood all over him, but a fresh stream runs from the base of one of his horns and a puddle is forming under a leg.  His bad knee, luckily, is unharmed and he leans heavily on that side to allow Dorian to rip open his pants to see a gash across his hip.

“It’s not too deep.  Behemoth or falling rocks?” Dorian says as he uses a scrap of pant leg to clean away the hand’s width gash.  He’s glad for the dark so he can concentrate on his work as he pokes and prods with cool fingers across Bull’s warm, muscles thigh.

“Possibly your blade, mage,” the Bull says with a smile.

Dorian grumbles while Bull laughs, and he packs the wound with one of Stitches’ poultices and wraps it tightly.  “You think I should stitch it up?” Dorian asks, waiting to see how much blood seeps through the bandage.

“You said it wasn’t deep, right?” Bull rumbles, trying to ease into a more comfortable position.  “I wouldn’t.  Just let the poultice do its job.”

Nodding and sifting through their packs, redistributing and prioritizing, Dorian holds out a hunk of jerky for him.  “We only have three health potions between us, so I figure we should save them for an emergency.” When Bull takes the jerky from his hand, Dorian follows with the canteen.

“Come here, Dorian.” Bull holds out a hand towards the mage.  Dorian just looks at the hand for a minute; he knows that it’ll be warm and calloused and safe but he hesitates, he doesn’t know what strings are attached to that hand.  Bull leans forward and closes said hand, it is indeed warm, around the mage’s arm, pulling him forward.  “You’re shivering.” he says, by way of explanation, as he pulls Dorian into his lap and closes his arms around him.

With a self deprecating laugh Dorians lets himself be pulled around to be where Bull wants him, his legs across a large lap and his nose pressed against a collar bone.  “Of all the times to wish for coffee.  Not that one can get a proper cup this far south.”  Dorian sighs the sigh of someone remembering a ‘best of times’ moment.  “The last cup I had was the morning before I left, hot and bitter and thick.  The cooks used to make a coffee sauce too, using the leftover syrup.” He sighs again, a happy contented sound.  He allows one hand to rub against Bull’s abdomen.  For the warmth, he tells himself.

“The Tamassrans would make cocoa on occasion.  The spicier the better.” Bull hummed, deep and soothing against Dorian’s side, muscles twitching occasionally under his fingers.  The mage was hard pressed not to push into that feeling.  “I have some in my pack, if you’ve mana to spare.”

“This isn’t a picnic you great lummox.  If you can walk we should press on.” Dorian gathers himself to stand, but grey arms turn hard around him.

“Obviously you didn’t hear Cadash threatening our lives and limbs should we leave this spot without ‘good’ reason,” Bull mimics as he holds Dorian tightly to him.  “And the only reason I would give up with prime and comfortable position would be for  _ someone _ to make me cocoa.”

Dorian freezes, for once at a complete loss for words, his brain running in circles trying to figure out a response with the right mixture of detachment and flirtatious ire.  Instead he sits there, silent, with his jaw creeping down.  His breath is warm and wet between them.  He settles on, “You can’t say things like that Bull, someone might take them the wrong way.”  But he says it with no conviction.

“And what’s the wrong way, Dorian?” Bull doesn’t loosen his grip, but Dorian can feel him pulling away just the same.

"In a situation like this, well,” Dorian pauses, the words stick in his throat until he coughs to clear it, “like you mean them.”

“Why wouldn’t I mean them, ‘Vint?  You think I throw around words without thought?”  He would sound mocking if it weren’t for the lack of heat.  He doesn’t sound anything.  Cold maybe.  DIstant.

“Just that!” Dorian says with a gesture that presses against Bull’s strong hold.  The grey hands drop, one into his lap and the other to curl around his hip.  His fingertips almost touch.  “The ‘Vint and the Qunari!  Varric will lament that he wasn’t caught with us!”

“If Varric was here, do you think we’d sit like this?” Bull asks with a squeeze to the mage’s hip.

Dorian raises his head and shifts so he can see his face.  He takes in the scars and the patch and the lopsided grin.  He shakes his head, again too lost for a response.

Bull leans forward and down until their noses brush.  “I’d like to kiss you, ‘Vint.  Can I kiss you?”

Dorian nods, eyes falling from a smiling grey eye to try to see that grin.  But then his eyes are closing as that grinning mouth leans into his.  The Bull’s lips are thin, but athletic, and Dorian feels his face heat up as he presses into them.  It’s a brief kiss, in the grand scheme of things, and much sweeter than Dorian’s willing to admit but he relishes every second of it.  

Against his lips, Dorian can feel the thicker skin of at least two scars on Bull’s warm lips, his breath is almost hot when Bull exhales into him.  His breath stops short so he can breathe Bull in, and even stale, Dorian shivers with a happy sigh.  He wonders how his mustache feels against Qunari skin.

Bull’s hands aren’t still, even if Dorian’s are plastered to the larger man’s body gripping into shoulders and sides, but are kneading at Dorian’s leg.  A warm massage from hip to knee and sometimes trailing up his back.

A small part of Dorian’s brain tries to bring up the ‘conquering’ jibe but gets distracted by Bull’s hand slowly climbing up his spin until it cups against the back of his head.  Bull’s lips are still gentle against him, so much so that Dorian tries to entice more, his lips drifting apart.  He can feel Bull’s grin stretch against him.  It ends with a warm swipe of Bull’s tongue over Dorian’s lips.

Eyes still closed, Dorian keeps his face towards Bull as though the Tal Vashoth is the sun, “What was that about cocoa?” 

The Bull laughs as he reaches for his pack.


End file.
